


Stir Crazy

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Fight Sex, Fighting, Guilt, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Trauma, Violence, dub con, pre apocalypse seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean needs Dairy Queen. Sam needs to be held down and beaten up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stir Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> My prompts for this were as follows: DQ, and wrestling that turns into kissing. I took said prompts into Season Twoland, when the Winchesters thought they were miserable but didn't know shit yet. I don't own them.

_Connecticut is a godawful fucking place_ Dean thinks with too much bitterness. He only thinks it because he knows Sam doesn’t want him to say it. Sam’s brooding in the passenger side, huge and hulking, the blackest rain-cloud in Connecticut’s rain-cloud thick sky. There’s plenty obnoxious about that, but the most obnoxious thing is that Dean hasn’t even done anything to deserve it. He doesn’t even get the satisfaction of knowing he was the one to get up Sam’s ass, darken his eyes and make him all tight and bunched up and pissy like that. 

Thing is, Sam just _gets_ like this sometimes, when they’ve been on the road too long. Dean’s theory is that it’s because he has long legs. He always has, he’s one of those long-legged kids who’s not good at being stuffed into a car like a sardine in a tin can. He needs to run, he needs to lunge and jump and kill things. Instead, he’s sitting shotgun while Dean drives around trying to find a Dairy Queen, because even though it’s cold, he really just wants ice cream for dinner. 

It’s trying to rain. If you can even call the drippy, misty half-fog half-evil shit they’re driving through rain. Sam makes a harrumphing noise, flicks his thumb and index finger against the window and its obscuring film of condensation. Dean rolls his eyes. 

He does wish he could do something. He feels kind of bad for Sam, in spite of himself. It’s not his fault he has long legs, that he measures his self worth in how many miles he covers, how many folks he saves, how many monsters he kills. It’s all numbers with Sam since John died. Like he can erase his guilt if he just runs far enough, spills enough blood, marks enough tallies. Dean thinks he’s full of shit, because no amount of anything can erase guilt. If it could, Dean would know. He would be on the same mission, the same fight to move forward, cover ground. But Dean is not long legged. Dean is content to drive and drive and drive, letting metal carry his body while he atrophies. He’s not sure anything matters anymore. He is sure he can’t be saved, though. 

Still, for Sam’s sake, he wishes he could offer some salvation. If only to make his company a little cheerier. There are things he used to do when Sam got like this, things that worked. When they were kids, he could challenge Sam to a trail race, losing because he might have more force but has never had the same endurance. Running and running until they’re both heaving and sweating and Sam is like a machine until he is like a man again, laughing and wheezing and slapping Dean on the shoulder as they slow after the finish line. That worked, when they were kids. 

And later, when Dean would get frustrated by Sam’s stupid stoic silent self, it worked to fight him, work him into the same sweat-slick fury. Sam would rage against him, elbows and teeth and fists, and Dean would hold him down, steadiness and sanity the only thing making him stronger, until Sam finally gave up and went limp, panting, hair wet and awry. _Thank you_ he would say, and Dean would eventually let him up, rubbing his shoulders, all sorts of mystery in his gut. He stopped doing that, too, when Sam went to Stanford. It hadn’t seemed right to do it since he came back.

There, on the corner, against a lot of grey. A Dairy Queen. Dean slaps his palm triumphantly across the steering wheel, swerves into the parking lot. A few people mill about outside, just standing there under the cover of the awning, not buying ice cream because no one but Dean wants ice cream in the rain. 

Sam hasn’t talked in hours, but he breaks his winning streak to remind Dean of this. “Dude. A Dairy Queen? Really?” 

“I’m powerless against soft serve cravings, Sammy,” Dean says, shrugging. He parks, unbuckles, gets out of the car. Cold air rushes in, damp and chilling where it sneaks up under his jacket. Sam glares at him and gathers himself tighter into his angry ball. 

“You’re an animal.” 

Dean has a million potential responses to this accusation. _So are you. I’m also driving_. Endless other poisonous retorts. Instead, he opts for civility, because he still has to be stuck in car with this miserable fuck until they get to Springfield. “You want anything?” 

Sam seems surprised that Dean hasn’t reamed him a new one. He rubs his face with his hands, shakes his head. “No. No. Thank you,” he grinds out. “I’m gonna stretch my legs.” 

“Yeah. You do that,” Dean tells him, thinking it’s probably a good idea. _Run a few laps while you’re at it_ , he wants to add, but doesn’t want to risk talking to Sam anymore. Not when he’s like this. 

He pays for a medium cone, chocolate and vanilla swirl, in change. The kid at the register is one half asleep, the other half frozen, and Dean thinks he might have skimped on the ice cream, but whatever. He’s been driving for six hours with his sullen, volatile, asshole brother in the car. He just wants some sugar. 

The only guy at the dairy queen, he leans against the wet, warped-wood picnic table outside of it, and watches Sam pace in front of the car. He looks huge, those shoulders bunched up around his ears, his hair sticking up in back from sleeping in the backseat. He watches Sam kick absently at the pavement beside the Impala’s front tires. Then, he watches Sam _kick the Impala’s front tire._

Dean drops his ice cream cone on the ground. He doesn’t even care. He is so motherfucking sick of Sam’s brooding teenage bullshit. He doesn’t care anymore wether or not fighting him is an okay thing to do anymore. He’s going to do it anyway. _Probably good for both of us_ , he thinks, the last coherent thing in his brain before he slams all six feet four inches of his brother hard against black metal. 

Air whooshes out of Sam, startled and fast, but he’s not completely off guard. He pushes back into Dean, hands rough on his shoulders sliding on rain-dappled leather. The crease is still through his brow, all the tension and rage still visible on his face. Dean grabs him by the throat while he still has leverage, digs thumbs into his pulse, backs him up again, grinds his spine against the car until they both groan. “Don’t ever fuck with my car again,” he hisses, face inches away from Sam’s. 

Air is hot and thundering between them, could be coming from either pair of lungs. Dean hauls Sam away from the car in question, twisting furious, cold fists in his teeshirt front so he can steer him to the little grass partition between the Dairy Queen’s parking and the vacated lot beside it. Sam trips on the curb of it, falls onto his back in wet grass, which sticks to his white hands as they claw through it, trying to get a grip so he can stand, get his nails back in his brother. 

Dean is ready for him, drops to his knees so he can straddle Sam’s thrashing body, pin him by his shoulders. Sam is so fucking easy when he’s like this. He gets so pissed, so crazy with fury that he’s graceless, loses his skill and his balance and becomes a flailing animal. Dean frees one hand just long enough to form a fist, raise it, and drive it home into Sam’s gut. Just to paralyze him. Just to make him breathless. Dean needs the advantage, because Sam may be fighting like a mess right now, but he’s still bigger. 

His body doubles under Dean, his mouth sputters, and his eyes flash the darkest brown. Still, he forces one of his unnaturally, fucking _alien_ long legs up around Dean’s body, uses that length to throw him down on the grass beside him, heaves his body on top. They play this game for awhile, rolling around around on top of each other in the rain-cold grass. Dean is doing everything he can to hurt Sam, hurt him good, because that’s really all Sam needs when he’s like this. To expend energy, to waste his adrenaline, put it somewhere productive so he didn’t blow himself up, blow Dean up. 

Dean knows what Sam needs, knows how to give it to him. Right here, with Sam raging on top of him for a split second, grey-black and storm behind him, before he’s under him again, Dean can’t remember why he ever stopped himself.

He gets his hand up under Sam’s shirt, rakes his dirty nails hard down Sam’s taut, muscled side until Sam cries out. His skin is hot, impossible hot, and Dean feels himself getting hard in his jeans as his brother arches up against him, face screwed tight and red in pain. _Oh_ , he remembers. This is why. 

_Fuck it_ , Dean thinks. _Just ending things. Just making him bearable, just making things bearable for him. What a brother does,_ he lies, just so he can bring a fist and an elbow raining down on Sam’s chest, feel him cant up into the pain, beg for it with his body. His stomach drops. “Christ, Sammy,” he breathes, not hearing himself. 

Sam throws his head back and forth, digging his skull into the ground. Dean has been doing his best to keep Sam’s mouth away from him; all the other times they’ve fought like this, Sam used his teeth a lot. It was one thing when they were tangled together, sweat and blood and spit, sure, that made sense. But later, with rings of purple and teeth marks all over his shoulder, his neck, his chest, bruises that healed into a deep, dull itch Dean couldn’t ignore, that was something else. Made it harder to forget, and when Dean got hard fighting his brother, feeling his mouth against his skin, he wanted to forget it the next day. 

But it’s what Sam wants, it’s where he puts all his feeling, all his anger. In his teeth. Dean watches him gnash them together, and his hand is weakening against Sam’s throat, the red, thrumming skin there. He finally relents, unable to hold him back any longer. Immediately, Sam is yanking Dean’s shoulder free from his leather jacket, exposing it to cold air and rain. Then, Sam bites him. A fierce, needy bite into the loose skin of his upper bicep, a hot stinging burn making Dean fight against it, pull away. But it’s what Sam wants, and he can’t stop. He shudders, eyes closed like he’s coming home, and he lets go, moves his warm, panting mouth up a centimeter just so he can do it again. 

And Dean realizes where he is. On a grassy knoll in the middle of a Dairy Queen parking lot in Connecticut, in the rain while cars rush by on a semi-busy street. His hand is on the back of his brother’s head, holding him close while he bites him muffling the noises Sam makes while he does it with the flesh of his own shoulder. 

It seems like a scene that might make a pedestrian stop and see if everything is alright, and Dean doesn’t want that. He also doesn’t want to hurt anymore, he doesn’t want to remember the feeling of his brothers teeth deep in his skin days later when Sam’s not crazy anymore and they’re pretending this didn’t happen, so he does what seems natural, what he wants to do. He tears Sam away from him, and keeps his mouth from snapping shut again by leaning down, kissing him. There’s nothing in between, one second they’re wrestling, the next, they’re kissing. His hand is in Sam’s tangled hair, fingers shaking in the warm wet chaos of it, and Sam is choking him with his tongue, licking hungrily into Dean’s mouth, over his teeth. 

They suck on each other, into each other. It’s this hot, real thing amidst cold and an unfamiliar, ugly state. Dean has already been doing it for awhile when he realizes that he’s never kissed his brother when he was sober. Or when it wasn’t dark. Or when he wasn’t sure one of them was going to die. Sam bites his lower lip, too hard, and Dean clutches him hard, fists in his soaked clothes, shoulder aching with bruises. 

Sam softens under him eventually, the fight draining out of him and into the grass. Dean breaks away to suck chilled air into his lungs, his breath visible in the grey light, mist real, actual rain now that slicks their hair to their brows, drips from Dean’s eyelashes. His jeans are heavy, his dick insistently hard in spite of the wet denim. He can taste the ghosts of ice cream under the taste of his brother, and is a confused mess of cravings because of it. 

“Are you okay?” he asks Sam, which is a stupid thing to ask him because of course he’s not. Neither of them are. Their dad is dead and they’re all the other has. Their mouths are swollen. 

Sam shakes his head, rubs at his neck. Everything that had color is black with rain now, everything but Sam’s eyes, which seem gold in the grey shadows. He has grass in his hair, on his cheeks, and Dean leans forward, knocks their foreheads together and tightens a hand around the back of Sam’s skull, kneads desperately, silently. “Feel better,” Sam admits, the words moving against Dean’s lips. 

They walk to the car, stumbling, wet, and Dean doesn’t want to get the upholstery wet, but they can’t stay outside, not in this sudden downpour. Sam takes his shirt off, chest peppered in gooseflesh and new swellings that will darken in the next few hours. Dean’s vision gets blurry, and he’s glad to know that there will be a deep, sick itch in Sam’s skin, too, and he won’t be able to forget. He stares at his brother until he has to close his eyes.


End file.
